


Light into the darkness

by sdwolfpup



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pianist, F/M, Jaime POV, Piano, Single POV, canon-typical disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdwolfpup/pseuds/sdwolfpup
Summary: “To send light into the darkness of men’s hearts - such is the duty of the artist.” - Robert SchumannJaime Lannister, a once world-famous concert pianist who is now unable to play with his ruined hand, discovers an unexpected talent in a hotel lobby lounge.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 67
Kudos: 251





	Light into the darkness

**Author's Note:**

> It's less than twelve hours into 2020 and I'm already making questionable choices by writing this. It's a one-shot for now because I REALLY need to finish Heart Full of Gasoline before I start another WIP, but once I'm done with HFoG I'll probably add some more. Though I'm sure you can guess where it's going. :D Unbeta'd.

A hotel lobby was no place for classical music. Travelers rushing about too stressed or uncaring to pay attention, workers who had heard the same songs too many times to even listen any more, and always an in-house pianist who was an insult to the name, butchering everything from Moonlight Sonata to The Entertainer with equal disregard. Every time Jaime Lannister stepped into a lobby and saw the angel wing rise of the cover of a grand piano, his stomach would twist unpleasantly. If he were lucky, he'd arrive when there was no one at the keyboard. 

He was not lucky today. 

A man sat there, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, bland features screwed up with entirely too much focus as he plunked out an astonishingly clunky rendition of Chopin's Prelude Number 7 in A Major. Jaime's hands twitched as he waited in line to check in, feeling the remembered notes under his fingers. The man was playing too fast, then too slow, his hands falling like bricks on the keys. It was one of Chopin's easiest and he couldn't even manage that. Six months ago, Jaime would have strode over and shoved the man aside, brought some relief to poor Chopin who surely must have been spinning in agony in his grave. But that had been before the accident, when Jaime had two working hands and was one of the greatest pianists in the world. Now he could only grind his teeth and pray the man's shift ended soon or that he would at least reach the front of the check-in line so he could escape to his room. 

The tortured rendition of the prelude ended, there was blessed silence, and then the first notes of what was supposed to be Mozart's Sonata 11 started and Jaime groaned, “by the Father's balls” so loudly the people in line around him glared. He was still two people from the front of the line and half way through the Sonata when he couldn't take it anymore and Jaime broke from the line to storm over to the pianist. 

The man didn't even look up, either so intent on murdering the song he didn't notice Jaime, or so used to angry patrons at his elbow that he'd developed an admirable resistance. 

“What are you doing?” Jaime asked between clenched teeth, and the man startled, his fingers sliding off the keys in alarm. 

“What?” the man said, gaping at him. 

“I have to assume you're some random traveler stealing time at a piano entirely too good for your meager abilities, because the idea that the hotel is actually paying you to play like that is too laughable to believe.” 

The man's face pinched angrily. “I'm the in-house pianist,” he said tightly. “What's your problem?” 

“My _problem_ is that I've heard better renditions of those songs at elementary school recitals. Perhaps the hotel should expand their search parameters for musicians.” 

The so-called pianist stood, his bench scraping back against the marble floor. “Listen, buddy, I don't know who you are but you can take your opinions to the management if you have a problem. I've never had a complaint and I've been playing here for over a year.” 

“I pity the number of people who've suffered through whatever you're doing here and think that's music.” 

The man was furious now, swarming into Jaime's space. Jaime lifted on the balls of his feet, ready to take a punch, even more ready to throw one. Now that he didn't have to protect his hands as his most precious tools, he'd gotten very into using punching bags. This one would deserve it more than most. 

A well-dressed concierge swanned over, the pleasant smile on his face not hiding the nervousness in his eyes. “Excuse me, gentlemen, is there a problem?” 

“Yes,” they said together. 

“How may I help?” the concierge asked Jaime. 

“Fire this man immediately,” he said.

“Hey, fuc-”

“Hyle,” the concierge said sharply. He turned that ingratiating smile back on Jaime. “My pardon, Mr...?”

“Lannister,” Jaime said, and there was a flicker of recognition in Hyle's eyes. So the man wasn't a complete waste, then. 

“Ah, Mr. Lannister. We have been looking forward to your visit. I apologize for whatever offense Mr. Hunt has caused, and would be happy to get you checked into your room and offer you a free night in the lounge this evening.” 

“If he'll be playing I'll need all the free alcohol I can get,” Jaime sneered. 

“Though Mr. Hunt is a talented member of our staff, we have a different pianist in the evenings,” the concierge said smoothly, “though the drinks will still be free.” 

“I'm sure I'll still need them if you consider this man talented.” Jaime shouldered his luggage and gestured imperiously. “Check me in, then.”

“At once, ser.” He gestured for Jaime to follow, and Jaime hesitated, unable to walk away without one last comment for Hyle. 

“Next time start with Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, it's much more your speed,” he offered before following the concierge to a side desk to check-in.

* * *

A few hours later, after using the hotel gym to run out his rage and then showering and changing into comfortable evening clothes, Jaime decided he may as well hit the bar and make the most of his evening of free drinks. His meeting the next day wasn't until the afternoon, which gave him a whole morning to recover from whatever hangover he could give himself. 

The piano sat empty, right in-between the lobby and the lounge, and he sighed and briefly reached out to brush his fingers over the smooth surface as he walked by. The ache to sit down and play tingled through his hand and into his heart, deep and raw as the first time he'd sat down at a piano after the accident and realized he couldn't make his fingers work the same anymore. Jaime's hands clenched into fists and he ordered a double whiskey for his first and second drinks. 

He was halfway through the second when the music started to sink in. His mind pieced together the notes, rifling through his extensive mental catalogue before identifying it as Brahm's Intermezzo in A major from his Opus 118. _An interesting choice_ , Jaime thought. It was one of Brahm's later pieces, written for the aging Clara Schumann, the woman he loved so desperately for so much of his life. 

“What recording is this?” Jaime asked the bartender, impressed at the quality of playing. Jaime didn't recognize the pianist; someone with incredible talent for sure, though some looseness that suggested they were not quite a professional. 

The bartender glanced up. “Not a recording,” the man said with a grunt. “Nighttime hotel player.” 

Jaime thunked his glass down on the bar. “You're kidding me.” 

“Go see for yourself,” the bartender said, so Jaime did. 

He strode from the lounge and stuttered to a stop as the full sound of the music crashed into him. What had seemed lovely and distant at the bar hit him like a wave outside of it now that there was nothing between him and the piano. 

Jaime's eyes closed as he let the notes wash over him, their tender rise and fall, the sheer longing in the pianist's deft finger work that Jaime felt the echo of in his soul, as though the piano's hammers were striking the strings of his yearning directly. The final notes trilled and faded into silence and Jaime took a shuddering breath. 

“Bravo,” he said, coming around the edge of the piano to greet the pianist, and then stumbling to a halt again when the woman at the keyboard blinked up at him. She was dressed simply: a white silk blouse tight against unexpectedly broad shoulders, dark pants lining what seemed to be a mile of leg. Her face was unfortunate, her pale blond hair in a tight unflattering bun, but her eyes were captivating, and they were alive with feelings Jaime recognized deep in his heart, the same mix of pleasure and sadness that came from having played a lovely piece of music, knowing you'd never play it quite the same again. “Brava,” he amended, and the woman flushed. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, her long fingers resting comfortably on the keys. “Any requests?” 

“Can you do Gymnopedie Number 1?” he asked. 

Her big lips twisted in a nervous smile. “Of course.” 

She set her fingers on the keys, took a deep breath, and then began on the exhale. It wasn't a technically difficult piece, but playing it well required patience and emotional engagement many pianists lacked. Jaime had judged many a player by their rendition of this piece, and found them all wanting. He expected no less here, though he hoped to be surprised. 

He wasn't surprised; he was astonished. 

The woman didn't play it, she _felt_ it, her eyes closing occasionally on moments of intensity, her body swaying with the three-four time signature. Jaime felt his breathing sync to the movement of her hands, and when she finished he was leaning forward, as though her long fingers had pulled him in. 

“Incredible,” he breathed, and she rewarded him with an even deeper flush, her stare affixed to the keyboard. Her hands moved silently across the keys, a gesture he'd made many times himself, the gentle grounding of pianist to piano. 

“Do you play?” she asked in a small voice and Jaime pulled back, the magic shattered. 

“I used to,” he said, holding up his maimed hand. She did look at him then, truly taking him in, and he saw the moment she recognized who he was, and the sympathy that had started to take form in the endless blue of her eyes twisted with dismay. “Ah, so you do know me,” he said. 

“Every pianist knows you,” she said in a sturdy, distanced tone. “I was sorry to hear about your injury.”

“Mm,” he said. “Will you still take requests from the Kingslayer?” 

The woman blanched but she didn't say no, likely because she couldn't be rude to the guests. “If you must,” she said, “though I have a playlist.” 

“I'm sure its banality soothes most of the guests here, but I want something more exciting,” he said, and though she looked annoyed her cheeks reddened. He was delighted by it, though he didn't know why.

“Fine,” she bit out, delighting him further. “What's your request?”

“Do you have any Ligeti in there?” he asked, gesturing at the book of sheet music still closed in front of her. “I'm thinking 'The Devil's Staircase' might liven things up.” 

“Absolutely not,” she said. “That work is an assault of tension, I have to keep the music appealing.” 

“Where's the fun in that?” 

“I'm not here for fun, Mr. Lannister, I'm here to provide peace to weary travelers.” 

He scoffed. “None of whom even listen to you, and those that do can't appreciate what you're doing.” 

“You did,” she said quietly, and he was struck by the determined surety in her stunning eyes. 

“You must be one of those people who believes music is the great uniter,” he managed to say once she'd looked away again. 

“Of course I do. It's one of the few things that binds all humans together. They may not consciously pay attention to me, but I know they're hearing the music nonetheless, and it's my duty to soothe and to heal them with it.” 

“Music is a shit healer,” Jaime said darkly, “or else my hand would be fixed by now.” 

The woman shook her head, pursing her lips at him in disappointment. “Music isn't for the body, it's for the soul.” 

“My point stands,” he said. “Unless you've heard a _good_ story about me?” She frowned and he knew the answer without her having to say anything. 

“I'm being paid to play, Mr. Lannister, so unless you have a reasonable request, I need to get back to work.” 

He had a hundred requests, songs he'd longed to play himself since he'd woken from the hospital, never finding the recording that was just right and somehow knowing this tall, ugly, remarkable woman would be the closest he could get. “I do have one request,” he said, and when she tentatively looked his way he smiled sharply. “Just your name. I want to know who to compliment when I talk to the manager. You're much better than Hunt.” 

Her face flickered with disgust at the Hunt's name, and Jaime's estimation of her rose another notch. “I should hope so,” she muttered. “My name is Brienne,” she said. “Brienne Tarth.” 

“You shouldn't be working in a hotel lobby, Brienne Tarth.” 

“I'll work where I please, Mr. Lannister.” 

“Then you're throwing pearls before swine.” 

She stiffened, her hands falling to her lap, and he realized suddenly she was tall, though it had been hard to tell when she was attached to the piano, the music she played making her seem outside of the world. He'd like to see her standing, to see how long those long legs were. “People are not swine,” she hissed. “No wonder your bad reputation precedes you, if you think like that.” 

“So offended on behalf of the masses. Truly you are a woman of the people.” 

“I must get back to playing,” she ground out, glaring down at the innocent keyboard. 

“Do you play every night?” he asked, and she nodded once, sharply, as though she hated to answer. 

“Wonderful.” He took a step away and gave her a short bow. “Then I'll leave you to your pearl-casting for the evening and return with better requests tomorrow.” 

“Great,” she muttered, and he was annoyed and amused both. 

Jaime didn't return to his room; instead he took the seat nearest the entrance of the lounge so he could hear her play, drinking only water, getting drunk only on the notes soaring and falling around him. He would be back tomorrow, and he would ensure Brienne Tarth understood the power of the music she wielded so casually, the extent to which her tremendous skills were being wasted. Unable to make music on his own any longer, the least he could do was help even a dour-faced, stubbornly naive wench like Brienne make sure she was sharing hers as she should. Besides, he was here for a week, he may as well entertain himself a little before he left again, gone back into the dull world where her music wouldn't follow.


End file.
